Will. Egad that’s well; we’ll all go.
Blunt. Not a Soul: No, Gentlemen, you are Wits; I am a dull Country Rogue, I.
Fred. Well, Sir, for all your Person of Quality, I shall be very glad to understand your Purse be secure; ’tis our whole Estate at present, which we are loth to hazard in one Bottom: come, Sir, unload.
Blunt. Take the necessary Trifle, useless now to me, that am belov’d by such a Gentlewoman—’sheartlikins Money! Here take mine too.
Fred. No, keep that to be cozen’d, that we may laugh.
Will. Cozen’d!—Death! wou’d I cou’d meet with one, that wou’d cozen me of all the Love I cou’d spare to night.
Fred. Pox ’tis some common Whore upon my Life.
Blunt. A Whore! yes with such Clothes! such Jewels! such a House! such Furniture, and so attended! a Whore!
Belv. Why yes, Sir, they are Whores, tho they’ll neither entertain you with Drinking, Swearing, or Baudy; are Whores in all those gay Clothes, and right Jewels; are Whores with great Houses richly furnisht with Velvet Beds, Store of Plate, handsome Attendance, and fine Coaches, are Whores and errant ones.
Will. Pox on’t, where do these fine Whores live?